Milathos, Act III
by riversidewren
Summary: "Who dared to mistreat you in this fashion?" The protective instinct of a husband flares in him, and he wants nothing more than to throttle-then slowly, painfully kill—the man—or men—who abused his wife. Inspired by a prompt from LadyCavil.
1. Chapter 1

Athos finds the letter in a pile of correspondence on his desk one morning in September. It is a year since he had pushed his horse almost beyond the animal's limits to get tothe crossroads, only to find Milady's carriage gone. Four seasons have come and gone since Aramis retired to the monastery at Douai.

He had been so sure that one, if not both, would turn up at the garrison before twelve months had gone by. Perhaps the illusion that their absences were temporary made life bearable. But as the days of September pass by, Athos begins to try to come to terms with the fact that neither Aramis nor Milady are likely to return.

Acceptance does not come easily. At times, he curses Treville for anointing him as his chosen successor. Late at night, if the window in his quarters is open, he hears the raucous laughter floating through the air from the Wren. Lying on the thin mattress, he tosses and turns, unable to shut out the noise that reminds him of Aramis. When he closes his eyes, he sees his friend balancing a melon carefully on his head, arms outstretched. A moment later, Porthos shoots cleanly through the melon, and the look of sheer joy on Aramis' face makes Athos smile in the darkness. Then the picture fades from his mind, and he is left with the ache of loss.

The dull boom of thunder echoes through the morning air. A slow, steady rain begins to fall outside his office, and a cooling breeze filters through the window. He thinks of Anne, and how ironic it is that such a cunning, dangerous woman is afraid of thunderstorms. _At least, she once was—perhaps in England she has become accustomed to them_.

With a sigh, he contemplates the sea of missives that lie on his desk, taunting him with their presence. He decides to try to come up with some basic scheme of organization. _Surely Treville had one?_ Standing up, he begins to sort through the pile, putting official correspondence to the right side, and personal letters to the left.

He finds the personal letters the most draining to read. Destitute widows of long dead musketeers write short, desperate pleas for assistance. Fathers pen elaborately crafted petitions begging for a place for their son in the regiment.

A small, light blue envelope catches his eye, and he recognizes the stationary at once. His heart begins to slow as he picks it up and sees her flowing script, crowded and hurried. Sitting down, he hesitates for just an instant, then opens it, hungry for any sentence, no matter how brief, from her hand.

 _England is not what I thought it would be. I have returned to France, but only for a short time. I will be in the vicinity of your father's hunting lodge on 1 October. Meet me at the Avenue of the Birches on that morning. I will be there at dawn, and shall wait for you this time. A._

Twelve days later, he rides up to the road that leads to the lodge. The mist is still heavy in the air, but it is all as beautiful as he remembers. He dismounts, and secures Roger to a nearby tree. The animal noses through the leaves, seeking out blades of grass hidden under the carpet of autumn colors.

As he begins to walk down the path, everything he sees reminds him of Anne. The slim, creamy birch trees, swaying gently in the wind, bring to mind her grace. The kaleidoscope of vibrant leaves cause him to think of the sensuality she put into even the smallest movement when they made love. The small cairn of rocks to the right, each stone delicately placed on top of the next, recall the balance she brought to his life in the early days.

He covers almost a quarter of a mile before he enters the thickest patch of the swirling mist in front of him. At that moment, he sees her standing in the center of the path, not ten feet in front of him. The look in her eyes halts him in his tracks, and he stares at her, unable to believe what he is seeing.

* * *

 **I originally intended for this to be a one shot, but am having a hard time leaving it there. Perhaps this is my attempt to compensate for the fact that happily for Maimie, but sadly for us, there will be very little, if any, of her gifted acting in season 3.**

 **The picture inspiring the story can be seen at Tumblr (lizcavil, The Light of Night). And if by some chance you haven't checked out any of her fics (Hide and Seek, Athos' Refrigerator, The Road to War, among other gems), please do! She is an amazing writer!**


	2. Chapter 2

_"If in my youth I had realized that the sustaining splendour of beauty of with which I was in love would one day flood back into my heart, there to ignite a flame that would torture me without end, how gladly would I have put out the light in my eyes."_

Michelangelo

* * *

 **CHAPTER II**

She looks so fragile—so vulnerable. After the first shock has worn off, he estimates that she has lost at least fifteen pounds since he last saw her. On her slim frame, the wasting is painfully obvious.

"Anne?" In that one syllable are a thousand questions. She sways, and looks ready to faint. He understands that the answers will not come anytime soon.

"I'm-I'm fine," she gasps. He realizes that she is anything but. She takes a step, then stumbles. He catches her just before she hits the ground.

* * *

An hour later, she is safely tucked into the massive oaken four poster bed. She is only semi-conscious when he undresses her, and when he sees the marks of the whip on the soft skin of her back, he tries not to flinch.

 _Who dared to mistreat you in this fashion?_ The protective instinct of a husband flares in him, and he wants nothing more than to throttle-then slowly, painfully kill—the man—or men—who abused his wife.

"You're safe now," he whispers, kissing her forehead.

Her eyes are still closed, but she sighs, and settles against the pillows.

* * *

Two hours later, he falls asleep with his arm curled around her. When she begins to thrash under the covers, caught in the throes of a nightmare, he awakens.

She is alternately screaming and gasping for air, and the sight disturbs him more than he thought possible.

"I know-jewels—peacocks-the King—conspiracy-Treville—Athos—la Fère—STOP!"

Her cry is shrill, her voice raw. He tries to soothe her, but she fights him with every ounce of her being. It is only when he kisses her that she relaxes slightly. He is very, very gentle, taking care to make his kiss feather soft, and undemanding.

"Athos—"

She is clutching him now, holding on for dear life, and appears to still be firmly in the grasp of her dream.

"Darling, you are safe—"

"Thomas is lying!" she cries out, and begins to struggle with him. "Let me explain! I beg you, Olivier! Please, just let me explain-""

She begins to sob. He holds her close, and is shocked to feel her ribs jutting into his chest. She has always been slender, but he instinctively knows this is wrong. This weight loss is the result of a foray into darkness- torture, self-punishment, illness—they all come to mind as possibilities. He has no idea what the real cause is, but he resolves to find out.

* * *

After he finally coaxes her back to sleep, he gets up, and rummages around in the kitchen. The hunting lodge has been kept scrupulously clean by the resident caretaker and his wife. When he had shown up with Anne in his arms, Jean-Claude had narrowed his eyes at them, but Martine had recognized them straightaway. A luscious venison stew is simmering on the stove, and he longs to feed his wife by hand—to nurse her back to health. The fact that she mentioned Thomas while semi-lucid breaks his heart.

 _What if she had been telling the truth? What if these five plus years have tormented his soul for naught? What if—_

He forces his brain to _stop right there_ —because if he continues down that path, he will soon reach for a bottle of wine—or brandy. He cannot help her if he is a stumbling drunk. He cannot help her if he chooses to wallow in self-pity.

And he senses that more than anything, she needs him.

She opens her eyes three hours later, and finds him nodding by the bedside. His long legs are crossed, as are his arms. He is here. Have I died and gone to heaven?

All she remembers are the relentless strokes of the whip. She had started out so proud, so stoic…but by the sixth lash, she had begun to scream for him.

And his name had been her undoing.

* * *

 **For some reason, I have Milathos on the brain this holiday season. We shall see where this goes...any ideas as to what exactly happened to Milady?**


	3. Chapter 3

_"Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darknesses of other people."_

Carl Jung

* * *

 **CHAPTER III**

Suddenly, the force of her memories crushes her, and she gasps for air.

* * *

Her wrists are shackled to an iron bar that hangs from the ceiling. The skin underneath the chains is already raw, dried blood is splotched across the sleeves of the worn gown she has been given to wear.

The material is a repulsive yellow that has just the merest suggestion of a greenish tint to it. If Anne stares at it long enough, it makes her feel queasy. It is also the most uncomfortable, scratchy cloth possible, and she is sure that it must have been crafted by the devil himself.

The man holding the whip is walking around her again. He seems to enjoy the game of dangling the long, elegant length of leather in front of him, drawing lazy patterns with the tip in the dirt.

Her feet are freezing. She finds it odd that above everything else—the stinging bite of the whip, the relentless interrogation, even the sleep deprivation—all she can focus on is how unbelievably cold her feet are.

As the whip whispers along the floor, its undulating movements remind her of a green whipsnake she had once seen at la Fère.

 _She is walking in the garden, and the sinuous motion of the reptile catches her eye. Entranced by its grace, she stops to watch the snake glide through the flower beds._

 _Thomas happens to walk past, and notices it as well. Picking up a long stick, he prods the snake, causing it to erupt into a frenzied dance of fury. It hisses and thrashes, slapping the ground with its tail until Thomas drops the stick, laughing uproariously._

 _How she hates his laugh. The younger, carefree son of the old Comte is everyone's favorite. He is always careful to be scrupulously polite to his brother's wife when in the company of others. However, when the two of them are alone, he enjoys nothing more than unleashing the maliciousness that is carefully hidden under his charming exterior. He calls her a kindred spirit, and she hates that even more than his laugh._

 _"_ _Feisty—and limber." His lips savour the words as he fixes his eyes on hers. "Seemed ripe for a bit of a poke, but then turns on me, hissing and slapping like the devil's own spawn. Mixed messages-just like someone else I know." He pauses, then steps closer, backing her against a bush of snowy roses. She nearly loses her balance, and a thorn plunges into the skin of her forearm._

 _He smiles, and draws close enough that she can feel the heat of his breath on her forehead. "Why do you persist in giving me mixed messages, Anne? I find it incredibly tiresome. What would my dear brother think, I wonder? Athos lives for honor and gallantry. That's why he married you, isn't it? You fit the image of the damsel in distress, the innocent maiden of his dreams. I doubt he would appreciate duplicity."_

Bile rises to the back of her throat, and she chokes.

The man with the whip stops in front of her. He lifts the whip up slowly, and caresses her cheek with the very tip. He is watching her closely, waiting for her to flinch.

His eyes are an unearthly grey—the sort of leaden color the sky takes on before the most terrible of winter storms. She tries not to betray the panic that threatens to flood her body.

His jaw sets. "Let's try this again. Who are you working for?"

"I already told you." She spits out the words at him, outwardly defiant in the face of intimidation. "No one."

The whip slides over to her other cheek, the point tracing the outlines of an "L" on her skin.

"Liar!" he whispers harshly, and draws back. He begins walking around her again, neatly wrapping the whip around his left hand.

"It has been reported to me that you were seen more than once in Paris with certain musketeers of Captain Treville's company. And I have also been told that you shared the King's bed. Is that true?"

She glares at him, and remains silent. "Answer me!" he roars. When no reply is forthcoming, he steps behind her. She can hear the whip being released from the tight coil wound around her hand. An instant later, the lashes begin. They come hard and fast.

By the second stroke, the cheap material of her gown has been torn.

After the third stroke, she can feel the blood trickling down her back. She recalls lying on her belly next to Athos in the hazy aftermath of lovemaking. His fingers skim over her shoulder blades, following the curve of her spine.

 _"_ _You are so beautiful," he whispers, his eyes soft and dreamy. "Even the skin of your back is translucent—as pure and unblemished as moonlight on a summer night."_

Not anymore.

By the fourth stroke, she is wondering how bad the scars will be. Focusing on the possibility of scarring helps her to forget that there is a very real chance that she will be dead before this is all over.

After the fifth lash, she starts to think that it might not be so bad to die. Her flesh has been flayed open, and the agony is almost unbearable.

By the sixth stroke, she is convinced she is dying. As she prepares to pass into whatever version of hell is waiting for her on the other side, there is only person she wants.

His name rises unbidden to her lips, and she screams it once—then twice. Her voice is raw, her spirit broken. As her head sags against her chest, her breathing slows. Her heartbeat thrums in her ears, and she waits for death to take her.

When Anne is released from the shackles an instant later, she falls to the ground in a heap. "Athos." The word is a mere whisper, but her captor's ears are alert. A grin of satisfaction spreads across his face.

A full minute passes, then a booted foot turns her over onto her back. She realizes with dismay that she is still very much alive.

"Athos. That's what I thought you said." The grey eyes are bright with anticipation. " _Now_ we're getting somewhere."

* * *

 **Thank you to everyone for reading and reviewing! Your support is much appreciated!**


	4. Chapter 4

_"Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within."_

James A. Baldwin

* * *

 **CHAPTER IV**

"You must slow your breathing."

His deep, cool voice is at her ear. She realizes that she is clinging to his shirt, the material fisted in her hands.

"Anne…listen to me…"

 _Anne_.

When was the last time he called her by her given name? Since she came back from the dead, he usually prefers to address her in the second person, or—when he wants to be particularly humiliating—talks about her in the third person, as if she were not even worthy of acknowledgement _._

"What did they do to you?" His voice almost breaks with emotion, and when she looks up at him, the blue eyes gazing at her are full of indescribable pain. "What did _I_ do to you?"

"Nothing," she whispers. "You did nothing."

"Exactly," he mutters. The self-loathing that often bubbles just below the surface is now apparent on his face. "I should have been there. I should have been at the crossroads well before the appointed time."

"And I should have waited…but I was too proud." She is stunned by her admission, and is unsure why she has made it.

He laughs bitterly. "And do you think I was any different?"

Her only response is to murmur, "Hold me, Athos."

He cannot recall a time when she allowed herself to plead for his touch. The confident, seductive Comtesse de la Fere did not plead or ask—she took what she wanted, and made him beg for what he needed. The memory of her standing over his brother's lifeless body makes him pause for just a split second—but his body overrules his mind immediately. When he takes her in his arms, she sags against him, unaware that he hesitated for even an instant.

"When they-" Anne struggles to find a word that does not sound weak, for she hates to think of herself—or to be thought of-as powerless. She settles on a word that is largely neutral—a word that does not invoke pity. "When they were— _interrogating_ me—I needed something to focus on. To ground me-give me a reason to fight. You were my lifeline, Athos."

She has whispered sweet, loving words to him many times in the past—and he is sure she done the same with the King…with d'Artagnan…with the others.

He wants to think he doesn't care about them, but he does. With a herculean effort, he stops himself from spiraling into the black pit of jealousy. He instinctively knows that this time, she is telling him the truth.

Athos wants to tighten his hold around her—to block out the world, and the chaos and pain that accompany it. He does not, because he is afraid that he will hurt her. The marks on her back are not completely healed.

"I should treat your wounds," he says softly, inhaling the scent of her hair. "The skin is still raw." He recalls the night he held Anne by the neck in the middle of a Paris square, and threatened to kill her. Even then, he had been unable to resist burying his face in her hair one last time.

She swallows. "It must look terrible."

"No, it does not. It is healing—and there is beauty in the strength that fuels that recovery." His voice is so tender, so soothing, that she begins to believe that she will not be left a scarred, disfigured woman.

She gives a little sigh, and he kisses her forehead. "Let me care for you—please."

When Anne looks up at him, he can tell how very much she wants to say yes. But to allow would be to admit that she needs help—that she desires to have someone tend her wounds. He knows how much she hates to rely on anyone but herself.

"So maybe you can't do it all alone," he whispers, laying his cheek against hers.

The rough hair of his beard has never felt so good against her skin.

"Maybe you need a little help. So be it. No one but me will ever know."

He wants to say _trust me_ , but he knows that would sound absurd coming from him.

Anne stares at him for another moment, then nods. She cannot bring herself to say _yes_. Or _yes, I'd like that_. Or _thank you_. Those are all words—and emotions- she is uncomfortable with.

"Here, lie down, against the pillows." His voice is calm and gentle. "Turn on your belly."

"But my chemise—"

"I'll take care of everything."

And he does. The thin straps of her chemise are eased over her shoulders. A hand caresses the slope of her neck, then moves to her spine.

"I would see these men to hell."

And she knows he would.

His fingers slowly trace the outline of the marks left by the whip.

This is not a casual inspection. He careful to examine and acknowledge each one of the stripes on her back.

It is his way of letting her know without words that he understands what she has been through—and that he is aware of the courage it takes to endure such suffering. He has doubtless experienced similar treatment—likely more than once.

After the incident at Marmion's observatory, he had told her that she had earned his respect. She remembers her answer, which had been delivered in the most mocking tone possible.

 _Once upon a time that might have been important to me._

As he kisses the nape of her neck, then begins to cleanse her wounds with the greatest of care, a realization suddenly hits her.

It is the biggest lie she has ever told.

* * *

 **Thank you for all your comments! Milady and Athos have such a tortured past...it is interesting to speculate about what might have happened had they been put in a situation like this.**


	5. Chapter 5

_"There are only two mistakes one can make along the road to truth; not going all the way, and not starting."_

 _Buddha_

* * *

 **CHAPTER V**

He first gently washes her back. Despite meticulous attention to the healing areas, he cannot help but loosen some of the scabs that have formed. Some of the stripes bleed afresh, and he holds light pressure until the trickle of blood tapers off.

Martine enters the room, and leaves a small tray next to the bed. She places a comforting hand on his shoulder, then leaves without a word.

Athos glances at the tray. There is a small jar of an herbal salve— he catches notes of peppermint and thyme when he opens the top. Next to it is a pile of clean linen bandages.

Anne has been stoic during the whole affair. There have only been a few moments where he has noted tension in her shoulders, or caught the slightest intake of her breath.

"This might sting a bit, but the salve should speed the healing, and keep you more comfortable."

"I place myself in your capable hands," she murmurs. "Do with me what you will."

For the first time, he chuckles. His laugh is so low that she might have missed it if she had not been listening carefully for his response. "I have to admit I never thought I'd hear you say those words to me."

"And I suppose certainly not in this context."

He hears a hint of wry humor in her voice, and his heart leaps. It is a change from her usual biting sarcasm, and he takes it as a sign. There is still a bit of the Anne he loved that is buried deep inside her.

 _How to reach her? Does she even want breathe new life into that part of her soul?_

He wants to think that the answer is _yes_ , but the prospect of putting effort into their relationship once again is simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying.

Anne senses that his thoughts are running along these lines, and she feels despair wash over her afresh. She is not sure she can bring herself to trust him—to surrender to him-once again. She is in uncharted waters, and it is disorienting.

For the first time in many years, she is not free to act out a carefully scripted part. In order to begin anew, she will have to strip away all the layers of lies and half-truths that have encased her spirit. They have been useful over the years, and have become old friends. The thought of losing them is unsettling.

This time, she will have to reveal her true self to him, and the very thought is more threatening than she cares to admit. After all, she is no longer sure that she knows who Anne de Breuil is anymore.

"What's wrong?" He rests his hand on the small of her back, subtly pushing her chemise a fraction lower.

She freezes, desperately trying to think of something to tell him that is not a lie, but not quite the truth. She is nowhere near ready for that discussion.

"I—I just don't like you seeing me like this."

"Anne."

Her name again. She likes hearing it on his lips. Likes it a lot. That bothers her, so she chooses to say nothing. His hand begins to rub the small of her back in gentle circles. The tenderness in his touch nearly shatters her, and she chokes back a sob. She does not deserve this kind of love.

"Anne—I know you are not weak. You have an iron will, and you have a burning desire to live."

"I'm not so sure about that." _Damn. Why did I have to say that?!_

He is taken aback. The jails in England are not known for their mercy. Is it possible she is more damaged emotionally than she has let on?

"Tell me."

The time of reckoning has come much quicker than she anticipated, and she knows that their entire future hangs in the balance. Her next words are likely the most important of her life. If she tells him the truth, his life will be at risk. If she does not, the future of France is at risk.

She takes in a deep, steadying breath, and rolls onto her side to look at him. His leather is stacked neatly on a chair, and he is now clad only in his shirt and a simple pair of breeches.

Athos lies down next to her, his hand still casually resting on the small of her back. He can feel the tension building in her muscles again, and knows she is trying to make a decision.

"I promise to listen, and not to judge you."

His honesty dissolves her doubts, and she begins to caress his face with her slender fingers, tracing the line of his strong jaw.

"So many others in the Tower died while I was there, Athos. Sometimes I would see them carry out the bodies in a cart. My cell had the very smallest of windows—there was barely enough room to put my entire face against the bars. But the positioning of my one link to the outside world was well thought out. It looked down upon the exit from the interrogation rooms. The living would enter those chambers, only to depart as the dead. Unless, of course, they were hung in the courtyard instead. I had a front row seat for those proceedings as well. On my third straight day in the interrogation rooms, I thought I was about to be the next death recorded by the warden. But then, the beating suddenly stopped."

"Why? Surely they had a reason."

His blue eyes are thoughtful, and he is very careful to keep all signs of pity from his face. He will listen, much as he would—has done—for his three closest friends after a mission gone awry. But no matter what she tells him, he will not show her how much it troubles him.

"Oh, there was a reason they let me live, Athos. My entire imprisonment was carefully orchestrated. By whom, I'm not sure. But I have been sent back to France on a specific mission, and that mission involves you."

She lays her palm flat against his cheek, and searches his eyes for the emotions she has seen reflected in them so often over the past few years—mistrust, distaste, anger.

None of them are there.

She makes her decision, and finds her voice. "Athos, they want me to recruit you to the service of the English king. Their aim is for you to become a traitor to France—and ultimately, to kill the King."

* * *

 **The plot thickens...thank you for reading! Now to figure out what happens next! ;-)**


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